Literary Arts

"Pascual Pierre" by Fatima Deme

Pascaul Pierre roamed his halls
Turning every corner, banging on every wall.
For once again it commences
Those torturing cries
Those countless whispers
Those ceaseless whines. 

The voices rise:
“Won't you give us life?” 
“Have you no soul, why must you leave us behind?”
“Stop your useless painting and hear our sighs!”

The whines fade back into the shadows
And Pascual resumes his work, 
Madness growing in his eyes 
He paints and paints away
Coating every bristle with a deep, black paint.

Pascaul Pierre must hurry
For the gallery will be held 
At precisely a quarter past three.
He will display his first ever piece 
The room falls silent, 
And, Pascual proud as can be 
Continues his masterpiece. 

With every stroke upon the canvas 
His old, boney fingers begin to strain 
Too slow, too stiff,  yet he still paints away
Pushing through the pain 
Trudging through the fear of his old ways.

Anchors weigh down his hands
He grows weak. 
Doubts begin to race his mind: 
“I'm a fool this isn't strong enough to be seen”
“For the world will laugh and gawk at me”

He banishes them 
“No more doubt. I must finish you, my dear . 
You must reap the rewards of all my failed years 

The clock now reads a quarter till three.
Pascaul in awe, dropped to his knees.
Years of pain, of torment,
Erased in this one piece.

“The world will see me at last”
“After seventy years, I finally understand”
“I am not a failed man"
“The world will for once see all that I am”

His joyful tears begin to pour, 
But his weeping soon drowns in a familiar roar.
They have returned
Angrier than ever before 

“How dare you Pascual!” voices cry
Trembling through the walls. 
The house shudders with a shivering wail.
So loud and fierce, it could make a cat straighten its tail. 

He stumbles, clutching his painting.
“I must flee”.
For the spirits are coming after me”
“Leave me alone!” he shouts.
“I must go,
 I must be known.” 
“Today is finally the day, we have been waiting for”

“Behold me you aching spirits
I'm old, unloved, unknown and decrepit  
Not a soul knows my name. 
Enough with the torment won't you for once let me be great”.

He tugs on the knob,
But it is locked from the outside.
Laughter echoed, crude and wide
The cellar door creaks open
A voice emerged, cold and steep 
Sending a shiver down his spine.
Knocking him off his feet.

“Pascal Pierre,time has run out
You gave us naught.
We died unseen, unloved, forgot. 
You must now stay, your fate is sealed 
You will die with us now 
Among the works you left concealed”.

Pascal's nails dig into the floorboards
Feet kicking, gripping, clawing for more time 
Fear rushes through his eyes 
As the horrid fear comes alive 
He will die with his work, there he’ll lie 
He prays for one more chance
But the darkness pulls him deep down inside 

There he lies
His regretful lifeless eyes 
Surrounded by the corpses of castaway paintings
Never getting to see the light of day, banished, thrown away
Never good enough. 
Never the one.
Always rejected, always undone.

And there, beside his twisted corpse,
Lies his first finished piece 
The boy, alone in the blackness of a life of failure and defeat
Empty. Abandoned.
Like Pascaul Pieerre’s soul 
Forgotten, forevermore.
Bound to his broken dreams, eternally forlorn.